The Problem With the Skull was that it Never Spoke Back
by you-should-see-me-in-a-crown
Summary: Johnlock post Reichanbach. John starts to talk to the skull, one day, he finds a note under it.
1. Chapter 1

John still talked to the skull sometimes. It had worked for Sherlock, he reasoned. "Why did he jump?" he asked the skull in tears one night when he had had too much to drink. "It doesn't make sense." Lestrade said it was an unhealthy habit and Mycroft had pursed his lips. Mrs Hudson didn't even try to clear any of Sherlock's things anymore. Not since John had shouted at her. He had felt awful, wanted to apologise, but he didn't and they both pretended it hadn't happened.

Sherlock still went into the flat sometimes, when he was sure it was safe and he couldn't stay away, but only at night. Only ever at night. John never saw him, he always assumed the extra blanket over him was Mrs Hudson trying to look after him. Sherlock shook his head, despite feeling a little pleased when he saw his experiments exactly as they had been. He remembered the clench in his stomach when he saw the dark lines across John's wrists but he couldn't say anything.

One morning sat in his armchair, drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper. He talked to his skull, as was his habit. "What's the use? You never answer," John said after a while, picking up the skull, wanting to hurl it against the wall but he couldn't do that. This was Sherlock's; he couldn't throw it against the wall. He moved to put it back down, but as he did he saw a small piece of paper. He picked it up and turned it round his fingers. He looked at it for a moment, read it. Reread it, and read it again to make sure it wasn't wishful thinking.

_I love you. -SH_

"I found a note," John told the man opposite him.

"Hmm," Mycroft said, not interested.

"It was from Sherlock," John added.

"What did it say?" Mycroft asked curiously, looking up slowly. John passed Mycroft the note reluctantly. Mycroft read it, not surprised. "This could have been there for years, before he jumped," he said in a disinterested tone, tossing the note back to the other man. John nodded, feeling his stomach sink in disappointment though he had told himself that already.

"You shouldn't have left that note you know," Mycroft told his brother once John had left.

"I know," Sherlock said, not regretting it one bit.

"Just be careful," Mycroft sighed after a minute, "You won't be doing him any favours by getting him killed." Sherlock just shrugged and walked out of the flat to the hotel where he was currently staying.

John curled up in Sherlock's bed that night. He did that sometimes when he got too lonely. "I love you too Sherlock," he whispered into the pillow that was growing wet with his salty tears. John slept fitfully that night and Sherlock stayed away. He couldn't risk John knowing he was alive, not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

"You should be dead," Sebastian Moran spat at Sherlock.

"That view has been expressed many times, Mr Moran," Sherlock said.

"Shut up!" Moran shouted. "Jim Moriarty _died_ to kill you. And now it's up to me to finish the job."

"You know I can't let you do that."

"Then you know I don't care."

Sherlock Holmes lifted a gun to his head. "Would you really deny yourself the pleasure of killing me yourself. I mean, your employer died for me. And I have killed so many of your people."

Sebastian stared at the other man. "You wouldn't," he spat.

"Do you really want to try me?"

Sebastian Moran raised his gun to point it at the other man. He pulled the trigger. Sherlock Holmes had started to move before the trigger had been pulled but it hadn't been enough. He was knocked to the ground, clutching the bullet wound in his abdomen. Sebastian Moran walked slowly towards the other man. "You won't deny me this pleasure, Mr Holmes." Sherlock's gun was a little too far away for him to reach without letting go of the wound meaning that the pressure would be released and he would lose substantial amount of blood.

Moran pulled out a knife. "I'm going to enjoy this," he said, "And when I'm done with this I'll get Lestrade. And then I'll get poor Mrs Hudson. And then finally, I'll come for John. I won't kill him quickly. I'll make it long; I'll have him beg for death."

Sherlock let go of the wound and reached for his gun, he could just reach it with his fingertips. He pulled it back and raised it, quickly firing it at Sebastian Moran. Head, lungs, heart. They all hit their mark. "You became reckless," he muttered, standing up with difficulty, gripping the wall. It was quite fitting really that they were in Moriarty's old flat. Sherlock staggered to the door. What now? Sherlock knew he had approximately six minutes before he passed out from blood loss. He picked up his phone and thought for a moment. He'd call John and certainly it was safe to now, Sebastian Moran had been the last of the network of spies, but he couldn't. Inexplicably, Sherlock Holmes was scared. So Sherlock called his brother.

John didn't know what to expect when he received a call from Mycroft told him to come to the hospital. "Bloody power complex," he muttered as he limped into the hospital. Mycroft refused to explain what was going on when he met John. After a while John gave up trying to pry any information from him.

John followed Mycroft to the hospital room. Mycroft stayed outside while John went in. "Oh," he said quietly when he saw the unconscious man. John couldn't describe the feelings that overwhelmed him so he clenched his jaw and limped out.

"John," Mycroft called, sighing slightly.

When John got back to the flat he sat in his armchair and turned that damn note over and over in his fingers, not sure what to do or say. He just needed to clear his head, he told himself. He just needed to clear his head.


	3. Chapter 3

It's quite a short chapter so I'm going to post two. :) It's like Christmas when it comes to very lazy writers. (I'm the lazy writer.. not you. Just to be clear ;) ) And thanks to my fantastic followers on this story.

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John went to visit Sherlock often. How could he keep away? He always made sure that Sherlock was asleep, he couldn't face him. Not yet. This was easier than it would have been as Sherlock seemed to be sleeping a lot. John guessed his body needed the extra rest to heal. John wasn't sure why he was so scared: he had wanted this didn't he. He longed for Sherlock to not be dead. Truth be told, he probably knew why he was so scared. In believing that Sherlock was dead, John was scared that he had glorified the other man. John didn't want to find out that Sherlock wasn't as good as he thought.

Mycroft said that John had been to visit Sherlock and Sherlock didn't even need Mycroft to tell him that. He could tell by the way there was sometimes a slight track into the room with a small circular one which was always scuffed by the movement of the cane. He could tell by the way there was always a print in the chair next to Sherlock's head. He could tell from that one time when he had heard voices in the corridor checking he was asleep, so sometimes Sherlock pretended to be asleep so that he could be closer to John.

Mycroft sighed at John's all too persistent habit so he did the natural thing. He lied and he manipulated. He told John that Sherlock was asleep and in all fairness, Sherlock was when he told him that. He just didn't tell Sherlock John was coming and he didn't tell John that Sherlock would probably wake up.

"Hello John," Sherlock said quietly, not being able to meet his friend's eyes either.

John jumped. "H- hello Sherlock," he said, telling himself that he wasn't so glad to see Sherlock's eyes again and to hear his voice, to have him look at him again, despite the way these things automatically pulled his lips into a smile. "It's good to see you again," he added after a moment, not meeting his eyes. He couldn't deal with that yet.

"And you," Sherlock said warily, not sure how he stood with the other man.

"When are you coming home?" John said, surprised at how easily it came from his lips. He hadn't expected it to but it did. He had come to accept that Sherlock had lied to him... for three years.

"As soon as they discharge me: So, tomorrow. John... It is okay if I come back to Baker Street?" he asked, a little unsure.

John just nodded, barely trusting himself to speak. "Of course it is," he said after a while. Sherlock gave John a hesitant smile that John couldn't quite return at the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

John climbed out of the cab with a little difficulty, realising how ironic it was that he was leading Sherlock at the moment. Sherlock followed John in silence, watching him carefully, noticing the limp was back. When they walked into the flat Sherlock looked around, seeing all the things he already knew when he had come in the middle of the night. He noticed that John had moved the bottle of antidepressants out of the bathroom, presumably because he didn't want Sherlock to see them. Sherlock turned to watch John who was making some tea. "John..." he said quietly. "I'm sorry," he added when John was quiet. "I had to, you see-"

"It's fine," John cut him off.

"But..."

"Sherlock, it's fine," he said, not looking at the man as he brought over the tea which Sherlock took silently.

"Your stuff should be just as you left it," John said, not mentioning the nights when he slept in Sherlock's room to be closer to him.

Sherlock just nodded, not sure what he could say.

John smiled to himself grimly. What a state they were in, neither of them being able to meet the other's eyes and both pretending things were exactly the same. John turned over the note in his pocket with his fingers. He didn't know if Sherlock knew he had it and oh... It was just too confusing, he reflected.

The evening passed in an uncomfortable silence, when the night came they both retired to their respective rooms. Sherlock knew John had been sleeping in his bed but he said nothing. He didn't know whether it was okay to mention, well. Whether it was okay to mention anything really. Sherlock closed his eyes reluctantly, deciding he needed to sleep.

John lay curled up in his bed silently. He turned the note over in front of him, after a moment he made a decision. He stood up and limped over to find a pen. When he managed to find one, (he didn't even bother trying to hide what he was doing, any noise was heard by Sherlock so there was no point) he wrote on the back of the creased note.

_I love you too, Sherlock Holmes. –JW_

He clumsily placed it under the skull, wondering how long it would take Sherlock to find it before climbing back into his bed where he'd inevitably wake up screaming like he had every night for the last three years.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He had only gone to bed because John had told him to and he didn't want to see the empty blank agreement that would appear if Sherlock protested. He looked up at the ceiling and noted the bit of plaster that had flaked off since he had been here last. He took note of the blond hairs that were on the pillow beneath him as John had slept in his bed. John would never say so of course but it was true. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out. He remembered the moment when he had felt an emotion he hadn't thought was possible. He had always considered himself incapable of emotion and certainly it had seemed true but t some point it had changed.

Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, regulated. The walls were thin and he could hear John moving about through the walls. He heard him in the living room and considered getting up, to go to him, but he found he couldn't. He listened to John turning in his sheets. He heard the breathing become more regular and slow and decided he was asleep. Sherlock listened to the voice that he had heard call out so many nights before.

Sherlock counted the heartbeats as he listened to the other man. It was as a bar of music like his violin. Two beats in a bar. After a while he heard John's voice, "Sherlock? Sherlock, please, come down." So on so forth and eventually, "Please, he's my friend let me through." This was how the nightmares always started, Sherlock decided, remembering the time when it was not his name John called out but distant comrades that Sherlock had never bothered himself enough to ask about.

Sherlock wished he could go and comfort John, hold him, like he might have had the courage to do three years ago but lacked the initiative. Sherlock turned and watched the wall instead, the three spiders on it, fastidiously ignoring each other. He closed his eyes and blocked out everything, one by one. Sight, gone. Breathe in, breathe out. Hearing, neutralised, but still his brain was too busy, still Sherlock counted his heartbeats. One bar, two bars. He knew it wouldn't work, but he continued to count out his silent music until the dawn and even then he lay still until he heard John begin to move around.


	6. Chapter 6

John woke up in the morning, drenched in cold sweat, his throat slightly hoarse from a scream that had died as he woke up. He closed his eyes for a second and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal after the nightmare he always had. The one which would fade until he next looked at Sherlock when it would bubble to the surface in his mind, turning up like a bad penny. The nightmare which might turn up when he passed St Bart's or that might simply turn up in the middle of the day and then the next night it would begin again.

When his heartbeat and breathing returned to normal he opened his eyes, swung his feet out of bed and padded over to the door. He rested his head against the door before pulling his familiar frayed dressing gown down from the hook and pulling it on laboriously. He opened the door slowly and saw that Sherlock was walking around quietly in the time that he had taken to pull his dressing gown on. He looked down at his slipper clad toes and shuffled over to the kettle. It was either shuffle or limp and he'd rather shuffle. Sherlock watched John for a few minutes before turning to the window. It almost hurt physically to look at him, though he wasn't sure why.

John pulled down his mug before hesitantly saying, "Would you like some tea?" his voice surprisingly steady for addressing the man he had just watched fall from the roof again in his mind, his subconscious grabbing hold of that image like it was a lifeline and strangling him with it.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said quietly. "John..." he started.

"I have to go to work, Sherlock," John said, starting to limp to his room, abandoning the tea still unmade on the surface. "I took a job after..." he elaborated just before he slipped inside.

Sherlock sighed and waited for John to come out dressed (seven minutes later) and watched him leave. He knew as well as John did that he didn't have to leave for another hour but he let him go.

That evening they didn't talk much, John disappearing into his room after claiming he wasn't hungry enough to eat, Sherlock doing the same. That night, and for several after, Sherlock listened to John's nightmares. Every day John avoided Sherlock and after a while Sherlock gave up talking to John.

A fortnight or so later Sherlock was watching the ceiling again. Breathe in, breathe out. Count the heartbeats like beats in a bar. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened. "He's my friend, let me through!" It was the same calling as usual. The one where every word was like a knife stabbed into Sherlock and being twisted before being pulled out slowly. Sherlock opened his eyes and got out of bed quietly. He walked into the flat. The skull had been moved, Sherlock had known that but he hadn't had the courage to look under it so he finally did. And a small smile bit at the corners of his lips. He picked up the note and put it in a pocket in his pyjamas.

He walked to John's door and placed both his palms against it before pushing it open slowly. He walked in, feeling the soft carpet against his feet, closing the door quietly. He hesitated for a moment before walking to the other side of John's bed and slipped in, trying to disturb John as little as possible. He slowly moved closer and wrapped his arms around John as the scream broke through his lips, early compared to some nights and late compared to others. "Sh-Sherlock," John sobbed, gripping Sherlock's pyjama shirt and crying softly into it.

"Shh, I'm right here John," Sherlock said as John gripped him tighter, tangling his legs with Sherlock's a little, gripping onto that lifeline, praying that if he gripped the lifeline hard enough it wouldn't strangle him. Sherlock pressed his lips to the top of John's head softly. John barely registered it, still half in a nightmare, the other half in a nightmare which had a little oasis of peace in it somewhere. He just gripped Sherlock tighter until he fell asleep again, nestled into Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

Hi guys, really sorry about the long gap, I sort of forgot about my story and then I couldn't think how to continue it. :3 Not much happens in this one, because I'm just trying to get back into the swing of it, sorry. Just... bear with me. :)

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In the morning John had woken up to find Sherlock snoring softly. He smiled and pulled back slowly, untangling himself, amazingly, Sherlock didn't wake. John wondered a little at this before he padded into the kitchen and went to make a cup of tea. Sherlock came out of John's room as John put the kettle on, John smiled a little at the sleepy detective, amused at the way his curls stuck out.

"Do you want some tea?" he offered, Sherlock nodded in assent. So John made two cups of tea and the two fell into a routine and at night Sherlock slept in John's bed to keep away the nightmares.

I t was an odd friendship w here both loved each other, and both knew the other loved them. They slept in the same bed each night and they needed each other. They never even so much as kissed during that time and neither of them wanted to. Neither of them wanted more and neither of them would have been happy to settle for less. It was still tentative between them and it was enough to know the other was really there.

Lestrade and Mrs Hudson didn't seem surprised when they saw Sherlock. Of course not, Mycroft had probably told them before. Sherlock had a dull sense of satisfaction when he saw Anderson and Donovan gawk when he was on his first case back (suicide bombing, victims dead before the bomb exploded). And of course his usual greeting of pointing out whatever they had been up to earlier was in order.

Sherlock was sitting in the flat on the sofa, his eyes closed and thinking but it wasn't working, John's presence was too magnetic, drawing his thoughts towards him. So instead of concentrating he simply said, "So you love me too?" his eyes flicking open, fixing on John.

John hadn't expected Sherlock to speak so it took him a second to register it. "Do you really need to ask?" he said after another moment, looking up from his newspaper. It was a genuine question and Sherlock knew it.

"Yes."

"How could I not?"

"Quite easily, I guess."

"Well then you guess wrong."

Sherlock smiled at the other man. "I have to go to the morgue today," he said, standing up after a moment and starting to leave. "Oh, and John?"

"Yes?" John said, looking over at Sherlock again.

Sherlock hesitated before leaning in and crashing his lips clumsily against John's before he could chicken out. "See you later."

"See you later," John said, smiling happily for a long time after Sherlock went out of the door.


End file.
